Hell

The street is beautiful.

Inspiration walks along with me

and my sorrow.

Along the canal and past the tracks.

Left or right, either way, the sandy banks rise,

The weeds wave slowly in the wind off the sea

And off of passing trains.

A form appears in front of me as I walk.

Neither ghost, nor vision,

Nor idea, it cannot shape

Itself without my hand.

But I have no hands left.

My mind and spirit are clouded

With concerns that fly around

Inside my head and heart

like magpies in the cypress trees.

*******

BIRMINGHAM
 
GRAVEYARDS AND BLACK SMOKE,
BLIND GHOSTS BUMPING
AT THE TOMB OF OLD BULL CONNER.
SHE APPEARS AS SHE DID
AMONG US AT HER BEST.
"RIDE WITH ME OUT OF HERE
NORTH TO SNOW AND WATER."
"O NO," SHE SAYS. "MY FEET
MUST HOLD ME TO THIS PLACE.
I WOULD RATHER LIVE LONELY
THAN LIVE WITH SHAME.
MY BONES LAY BURIED THOUGH I BREATH.
MY CLOSED EYE'S VIEW IS CHOKED BY WORDS,
MY SKIN A SHROUD AS STILL I DANCE
AND SCREAM OUT LOUD FOR ROCK AND ROLL!"
I MUST LEAVE HER TO THIS PLACE.
SHE IS ONE OF MANY WELL MEANING SOULS
WHO WANDER THE HILLS ABOVE THE RIVERS.
SITTING TO WEEP OR PONDER
AS THE SLAG BOATS GLIDE BY,
AS THE GUT TRUCKS AND EMPTY CARS
SPEED DOWN THE ROADS
NEVER STOPPING TO UNLOAD.
 
 
*****

ALL SOULS

The corpses have left nothing
But their jagged teeth
To dull the brown light
Morning drags in
From the haunts of night.
Sleeping sun, drunk still
and good for nothing.
There is no one else
to sweep away debris,
Fallen leaves.
Now the northern wind
Stands up with double fist.
The rooms chill down.
Voices high in the ceiling
Mumble, complaining.
Last night I slept in my lover's arms.
Today I am sad and alone.
Red sky and dead am I.
Bury me on Sunday
And drink my memory dry.

 
*****
 
Ghost Lands

You are transformed in me
To a thing of shadow,
A fading shape afraid of itself.
I cannot embrace this emptiness.
My ignorance blocks pity
And my heart is closed.
I stare into the fire
That warms the house.
The fire stares back at me,
Singing faintly
From the ghost lands
Where you disappear.
 
*****
 
LUCKY DAY

Get with a girl.
Take her home.
Wake up alone
Or so you think,
but she's still there,
A human being.
She smiles and you
Turn on the television.
Then you turn it off
And smile right back
And you spend the day
Down in the sack.
Night time comes.
She's got to go.
What was her name?
You might want to know.
Might want a number
For later on;
But out of the shower
She's up and gone.
The TV's on
a bunch of noises
Fills your head
With unwanted voices.
Lonely man sings
a lonely song.
Empty views:
His friends all gone.
Love is blind.
So this ain't it.
Life ain't kind.
We all eat shit.
Go back to that same lucky bar.
Where you felt like a porno star.
But don't expect her there.
Lucky days are rare.

*****
 
Lost Dogs
-in memory of Don Swann

They are only lost to us
Who see them no more,
Who can no longer run our hands
Down their back
Through their coarse fur.
They are not sentimental.
We are soon forgotten.
They only know the moment
That pulls them away from those
Who once admired their motion.
A bitch in heat, a smell
From across the hill:
These are life's important things:
Something running and
Running away in the tops of trees.
My yard is full of the bones
Of old friends who came to stay
And sticking around until time ran out,
Lay down where they lived
And did the natural thing.
But where are the lost ones,
The ones who were beside me
Then gone, leaving no corpse
In the ditch or on the road?
I hear the yard dogs bark
And I think he is coming home.
I walk out on the porch
And scan the moonlit distance.
Where do they go, these
Lost ones who abandon us?
I see a room full of people
Gambling, drinking,
Smoking and cursing;
And there is my boy, always
Timid but a good thief.
I turn my eye to another place,
A warm house and a good mistress,
A better master than I.
My old friend snores with a belly full
Of horse meat by the fire.
Or slicing through razored grass
Along the highway noise,
Ice falling from the night's mouth,
He cannot hear the sorrowful
Resignation in our voice.
This place was not what they needed.
This love was not given well.
Their last looks were not heeded.
Regret now fills their bowls.
It was not they, but I who failed.
So I will sleep and dream away
this loss until a brighter day
to swing my backdoor wide,
And greet another lost dog
To walk briefly by my side.

*****

Mid American Moon

Mid American moon
Lights up  the golden forests.
The old ghosts are walking.
Put out some beer and food.

They were like us and we are like they
Were, and no one should get left behind.

From out of the graveyards and other sad places

They wander the roads into town.

If you meet them, step aside, let them
Pass by. Let them find
What they missed
Last time around.


*****

She Has Demons

She has demons that he created.
She acts crazy and he gets confused.
She cannot release them
And listens to their suggestions.

He sleeps deeply beside her.
She watches him and weeps.
He dreams that she is smiling
But her tears drench his pillow.

Then a big wind blows the dog house down
And the dogs run blackly through the night
Barking, slashing, slobbery mouthed,
They run into the house and chase the demons
Away to the creek where they drown.

In the morning, the world breathes deeply.
All the leaves are stripped from the trees.


*****

CLARA

The baby died in a tiny, white room.
They brought her to the back porch;
Put her in a box and took her picture:
Something for someone to  remember.

Her closed, dead eyes look skyward:
High clouds block the struggling sun.
Geese fly south across the moon.
Bible verses miss their mark.

Her mom grew up on a six acre farm.
Life was not much better than death.
Except for the way it felt to be kissed,
Or to taste the first taste of autumn’s new breath.

But it already looked like a dead thing that needed
To be buried before the stink set in.
It probably was better off then having to struggle with living.
There is nothing good to sing of here.

The Father Of Wolves

They Cursed Him

Gastonia

If Kerouac Had Lived

Sleet

New Weather

In the Country Auditorium

Rainy Night